


Atlas and the World

by agoodtuckering



Series: The Thick of It Oneshots and Stories [4]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Angst, F/M, Friendship, Hidden Feelings, Like come on already, My heart hurts from this, Romance, These two just need to tell each other they love one another already, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 01:51:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13694385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agoodtuckering/pseuds/agoodtuckering
Summary: As perfect as Sam Cassidy as, as wonderful as a PA as she is, she's also Human. She makes mistakes, just like everyone else. Will Malcolm bollock her for it? Things have gotten complicated with the press wondering if there's something between them.





	Atlas and the World

She knew it was coming. He was bound to be _furious_ with her. He was going to bollock her for it. She finished the rest of her work and went about her day, _just waiting_ for him to come back to the office. He was absolutely _drowning_ in phone calls now because of what she’d done. She hadn’t even seen him this morning, he was so busy.

Finally, he returned. It was nearly dinnertime and most people were packing up their belongings to go home. And it was Valentine’s Day. There were chocolates and flowers and heart-shaped boxes all around. She hated it.

What made her feel even worse about what she’d done was the small vase on her desk with flowers from him. He gave her flowers twice a year: on her birthday, in January, and then on Valentine’s Day. He never said anything about it. He just _did_ it. It was a sweet gesture. They were her favorites, too. Tiger Lilies.

She felt guilty now just _looking_ at them. He slunk over, still in his overcoat and scarf. He cast a single glance her way, face pink from the cold air outside and lips turned down in a scowl. “Can we speak in my office, please?” he asked her, quietly. It was unusual for him, to appear so calm and collected. She assumed it was because he was _ready_ to give her the bollocking of her life. He’d been waiting for this moment all day.

All that rage, all that fire and brimstone, and it was about to be pointed in _her_ direction. It never had been before, and she’d never worried about it ever being pointed at her. But now…

 _Here it comes,_ she thought. She nodded her head and rose from her chair, slipping into his office and listening as he closed the door behind himself.

“Look, Sam… I understand that you’re not—”

He didn’t even get a chance to finish his sentence. She cracked and crumpled. She fell apart, turning towards him and cutting him right off.

“I know I’m a fucking idiot,” she said, a hitch in her breath. “I really didn’t mean to do it. I can’t believe I fucking sent the email to Tom and a few other _ministers_ . The fucking press already know. They called me fucking _leaky,_ Malcolm. Said they wondered what else _on me_ was fucking leaky. God… I meant to send that email to _you._ You know that. How could I be so _stupid?_ Especially after that _mess_ with Terri Coverley’s computer. With Hugh fucking Abbot sending that email off to fuck knows who and using a lovely little curse in it, meant for Glenn Cullen. She had to fess up and say it was _her._ How could... How could _I_ be so fucking stupid? You’ve always told me to check, and I always _do.”_

She didn’t do things like that. She never did. She was always perfect and precise and triple-checked with things. But, since Malcolm had been away for a week, on business in Glasgow, they’d taken to emailing one another back and forth _a lot._ They had private jokes between them. The email she’d sent Tom looked _so bad._

He crossed his arms over his chest and leant his back against the sturdy, strong wood panelling of his office door. “You didn’t let me finish,” he said slowly. “I was going to tell you that I’m _not_ angry with you. Accidents happen. We just have to… spin it away now. Preferably out to fucking space where it’ll stay and never come back to fucking haunt us.”

She collapsed into one of the chairs at the front of his desk and buried her head in her hands with a great sigh of relief. He wasn’t angry with her.

A scary notion occurred to her, the longer she thought about it.

_Maybe he was just saying that to make sure she didn’t fucking fall to pieces right now._

“I’m a big fucking girl, Malcolm,” she said to him. “If you’re going to bollock me, just get it over with, yeah. Don’t just… be nice because you _feel bad._ I won’t fall apart. I’m not a fucking child. I’m not some delicate flower that you need to look after…”

He came over and knelt down in front of her on one knee. By the time she realized what he was doing, she could hardly react. She sniffled as he took one of her hands, an uncharacteristic tenderness taking over his features. “Stop that,” he said softly. “What did you expect? Did you think I’d come back to fucking Downing Street and turn you over my knee?”

Her breath caught. Hardly noticeable, yet he was watching her so intently. He saw it happen. There was no mistaking it. Maybe that’s she wanted. In different circumstances, of course. _Very different circumstances._

For a moment, he sighed. He simply heaved a sigh and patted her hand, trying to calm her from earlier, from the little breakdown she’d had. “It’s alright,” he told her, confidently this time. “It’s a mess. I clean up fucking messes all the time. Sam… Do you understand? You’ve nothing to be fucking sorry for. I’m not angry. Not once today was I fucking angry _with you._ Not once. It could have easily been _me_ that fucking made the mistake, okay? It’s all okay. It was so late at night. We both were probably delirious.”

She nodded and followed his movements as he stood up again, shedding his coat. Just because everyone else was heading home for the night didn’t mean he was. He never did. He was the first to come in and the last to leave. That would never change. He worked himself _far too hard._ She couldn’t argue with him on the matter, though.

He had nothing for him at home. No one was waiting for him. Why be home? The blasted country needed him, anyway.

She stood up on wobbly knees and tried to calm herself with a soft, gusty sigh. “Right, well…” She turned to cast a glance toward the door, wondering what to do now. “I should probably finish my emails and head home…”

Yet, she didn’t move.

Neither did he.

For a long moment, silence settled between them. There was a vulnerability on his features as he spoke up none-too-bravely. “I had to lie today,” he said to her. A beat passed before he continued. “I was asked by at least twelve fucking hacks if there was something…” _No, don’t say it that way, Malcolm._ “I was asked if… there was anything to our emails. Because I told the truth. Because I told everyone the fucking email was intended for _me,_ not anyone else.”

She almost died in that moment. He told everyone the emails were between _them?_ That meant the press would assume they were having an affair of some sort with how the emails sounded. They were good friends. They could joke. They were cruel, sometimes. About others, in the privacy of their emails or texts. And they _weren’t_ having an affair. Not that she didn’t feel a great deal for him. She felt more for him than she knew how to put words to, in the privacy of her own mind.

“What do you mean they asked if there was _anything to our emails?”_ Her voice was suddenly defensive, a bit higher than before. She stood up straighter.

“People wanted to know if we were… you know…” He trailed off, as if his answer was _answer enough._

“No, Malcolm,” she said stupidly. “I _don’t_ know. Just say it.”

His voice dropped a whole octave, chin dipped as he responded. “A lot of people are wondering if we’re sleeping together.” His eyes drifted her way, almost curiously. He was pensive, unmoving.

Her cheeks flamed a dark shade of red and she crossed her arms over her chest, over the pretty white button down she was wearing. Then she said quietly, “Well, we _aren’t._ So there’s nothing you obviously had to lie about. I don’t understand why you made it sound like you felt guilty.”

She wandered towards the door but he didn’t move.

“You don’t understand,” he said gently. “They asked me _how I felt_ for you. They questioned the nature of our relationship, as Director of Communications and Personal Assistant.”

Her lashes fluttered for a moment as she tried to decipher what he was saying. “And you lied?” What a ballsy question to fucking ask him.

He tossed his coat onto the sofa in his office and gruffly replied, “And I fucking lied.”

It was as good of a declaration of love as she would ever get. He told the media he didn’t feel a fucking thing for her, and that meant he _lied._ She didn’t even know how to feel in that frail, fragile moment. How _should_ she feel?

She watched him walk away from her, watched his shoulders roll with ill-concealed tension. He wandered to his desk, his back turned in her direction. He placed his hand on the desk, the other tossing his phone down onto the desk’s surface.

Really, _how the fuck_ was she supposed to respond to that?

He was feeling delicate. She could read it on his face before he’d turned away from her. He was near _breakable._ She couldn’t be the one to shatter him. She knew better. But, much like a moth, she was drawn to his flame. And oh, he burned so brightly.

She hesitated for a moment before moving up behind him. He stiffened at the proximity, at the heat of their bodies, of hers. She stood up on tiptoes and pressed her lips to the nape of his neck, her hands landing gently on his shoulders.

It had been such a long, terrible day. Perhaps that’s why she did it. She _needed_ to.

“Sam…” He choked on the name. “What are you _fucking_ doing?” She could hear the way his voice wavered. There was loneliness seeping through the cracks in him, like all the dark shit in his soul was threatening to spill. She saw it, felt it, and it almost brought her to tears. But she wouldn't cry, not in front of him.

As she replied, her breath blew across the curls at the back of his neck. “What does it… _feel like_ I’m doing? Just let me. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You aren't Atlas. You don't need to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. Let it go.”

He twisted in her embrace, lithe frame turning towards her as he caught her wrists with unsure hands. His features were contorted, confused. “Sam, stop,” he told her, Adam’s apple bobbing as he struggled to keep his composure. “We can’t. Don’t tell me that it doesn’t have to mean anything. How could it _not_ mean anything, if it’s with you?”

His words were like a punch to her gut. It stole her breath away, like a sucker-punch, and she stared up at him with wide, disbelieving eyes. What was even happening between them right now? Had she really just kissed his neck? _Why?_ Because he was vulnerable and she wanted to make it better? No, she was selfish.

He deserved better.

They stood there for a little while longer, his hands still holding her wrists and keeping them in the air. He dared not move any closer. Then again, he didn’t exactly step away, either. He remained there, in the same spot, even as his eyes traveled across her features. They fell to her lips and her knees very nearly gave way.

Wordlessly, he began to close the distance between them. _He was going to kiss her. Finally._

That was when his phone rang.

He didn’t move away. He wasn’t going to answer. Yet, something inside of her knew that he would probably want to answer. “Are you… Are you going to get that?” Her voice was uneven and quavering. Still, he didn't want to move. His feet refused.

How funny. She’d initiated this — whatever _this_ was — and now she had to let him go. She couldn't handle it.

He sensed her unease and he dropped her wrists as if they had scalded him. “Tucker,” he said into the receiver, eyes moving to the windows in his office, all covered by closed blinds.

And just like that, like smoke dissipating in a crowded room — the mood fell away. It was over before it really began. Everything _changed._

“I told you not to fucking say that,” he practically yelled into his cell phone. “What is fucking wrong with you? Do you need me to fucking hold your hand and guide it for you when you take a piss now, too? Jesus fucking Christ. I can't even believe this… You’re fucking lucky I haven’t turned on the nighttime news yet. You're fucking done. I'll deal with this later. But believe me, you're fucking done, mate. Get your affairs in order. Your letter of fucking resignation is coming tomorrow. Maybe a death certificate too.”

By the time he hung up his phone, she was gone. She’d slipped off to fuck knew where. She just needed to be away from him. That much was obvious. More than anything, it made his heart ache, swell with sadness.

They constantly came so close. He was lost in her orbit. She drew him in closer and yet they never collided. Perhaps she couldn't handle his confessions tonight. Maybe it meant _nothing_ to her. She didn't have to return his feelings for her. The world wasn't always fucking perfect that way. He was nothing more than a fucking grumpy old man, years older than her. She wouldn't see anything in him. Would she?

He sat down at his computer and logged in, prepared to spend a lonely evening doing fuck all to save the country and Tom’s hide despite his best efforts.

That's when the door opened gently, just as he was tearing into a ripe tangerine. Sam was stood there, coat draped over her shoulders and a purse clutched between her arm and side. Without looking at him, she came over and delicately placed some folders and things down for him.

“I'm finished for the day. Had some filing to do,” she told him. “I'm away. Goodnight, Malcolm.”

He watched her step away and head for the door. Her gait suggested she was struggling to keep her composure. He didn't know just how badly she wanted to turn back around and tell him that she loved him too. He would never know.

In his mind, it was over. Whatever it had or hadn't been was over, and more than anything, he regretted every single thing he had confessed tonight. It was all a giant, colossal mistake. Had he ruined a whole fucking decade’s worth of friendship? He fucking prayed not.

“Right. ‘Night, Sam,” he heard himself say. But his voice was foreign. It didn't belong to him. Not anymore. That wasn’t him speaking.

When she shut the door, it was as if his heart _finally_ shattered. “What a fucking mess,” he mumbled. “I fucking hate computers.” None of this would have happened if she’d just emailed _him,_ instead. None of this.

“Keep your heart to yourself and keep your cock in your pants,” he uttered to himself, just like his father used to tell him when he was younger. Maybe it was about time he went back to following that advice.

Life wasn't a fucking fairytale. Fairytales didn't exist.

**Author's Note:**

> Written from a Tumblr prompt from natcrawlers which read: What if Sam messes something up work-wise… she is just a person, such things can happen even though you are the best PA in the whole world :P What I´m interested in is Malcolm´s reaction to such occurrence… will he bollock her? will he surprise us? will he bollock himself for not giving specific enough instructions? Will we ever know? ;)
> 
> Hope it came out good. I loved writing this one a lot.


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